


Anchor

by cenestpasmoi



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Bottom!Eames, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, top!arthur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-18
Updated: 2019-11-18
Packaged: 2021-02-12 16:26:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21479362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cenestpasmoi/pseuds/cenestpasmoi
Summary: The job is over, ended fourteen hours ago. Eames is a mess of identities and accents and mannerisms, a pot luck of people.
Relationships: Arthur/Eames (Inception)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 85





	Anchor

The house is comforting in its familiarity, a balm on Eames' jangled nerves. The job is over, ended fourteen hours ago. He's a mess of identities and accents and mannerisms, a pot luck of people. 

He shudders, once, and takes a step.

He walks up the drive. He unlocks the door. He leaves his shoes in the hallway, and his bag with them. He heads deeper into the house, and that's where he finds Arthur, lounging comfortably on the couch. His laptop is perched in his lap, but his eyes are staring into the distance—until he turns towards Eames and smiles.

It's warm and genuine and familiar.

"Welcome home," Arthur says, simple as ever.

Eames drops onto the couch and tucks himself against Arthur's side, lets himself ask for it in the shivers rippling under his skin, in the desperate way he inhales Arthur's scent. 

Arthur rests a hand on the back of Eames' neck, stretches his fingers as far as he can. When Eames sits up, the hand moves, sliding to the front of his throat and resting there like a collar.

Eames swallows, feels his throat move against Arthur's palm.

"This what you need?" Arthur murmurs, voice low. He drags Eames into a kiss, rough and biting and bruising. Eames clutches him closer and makes a noise in the back of his throat because _God,_ it is, it's everything he needs. Arthur's hands running over his skin, Arthur's body pressing him back against the couch.

They break apart from the kiss, Arthur straddling Eames' waist, hand still resting against Eames' throat.

Arthur leans back, his ass shifting over Eames' cock. Eames bites back a whine as Arthur's sharp eyes flick over him, taking in every detail. Arthur hums, rolling his hips more deliberately, and leans in to breathe in Eames' ear, "This what you need?"

Eames raises his hands to clutch at Arthur's hips, eyes slipping closed.

Arthur laughs and in a single, smooth motion, rolls them both off the couch.

Eames grunts with the impact. A full shudder racks his body as Arthur resettles himself on top of him, forcing Eames' legs apart with his hips. He fits against Eames perfectly.

Arthur places his hands on Eames' shoulders, leans on them almost entirely as he shifts up onto his knees. "Stay," he says, voice low and rough. Then, he moves, spreading his legs slowly, his knees forcing Eames' legs further apart.

Eames pants and lets his eyes slip shut, world narrowing to the press of Arthur's body against his and the frantic beat of his heart. He parts his lips and tilts his chin up, an invitation Arthur may choose to ignore.

A shift in weight, the whisper of fabric. Arthur strips Eames out of his clothes then moves back into place, skin to skin, pressing his slicked-up cock against Eames'. Arthur rolls his hips, and every muscle in Eames' body locks with the strain to _stay._

"Good," Arthur murmurs. He rises up to his knees again, bones pressing against Eames' spread thighs. Eames bends his legs, lets his feet press flat against the ground. He knows what comes next.

Arthur hums. He's so close his breath tickles Eames' skin. There's no hint, no warning. He bites down on Eames' shoulder hard, just as he shoves two fingers inside Eames.

Eames' back arches as he cries out. Arthur licks at his shoulder and presses his fingers deeper. There's no hesitation, no fumbling. Arthur knows every inch of Eames' skin better than Eames himself, can play Eames like an instrument. 

"Are you with me?" Arthur breathes, mouth damp against Eames' sweating skin. He stretches his fingers, just enough to make Eames feel it, and carves patterns into Eames' skin with every bite. He scores a line down Eames' chest with his teeth and adds another finger, lips curled as Eames shouts at the ceiling and lets his head fall back. He's panting, gasping, winded like he's run for miles, and they've barely started.

Eames is processing things in stages, snapshots of sensation like a flipbook. Arthur's tongue twined with his, Arthur's hands wrapped around his wrists, Arthur's voice as he whispers in his ear.

Arthur's fingers inside him, Arthur's fingers wrapped around him, Arthur's teeth scraping gently over his jaw.

Then Arthur is pressing against him—fuck, _inside_ him—moving slowly but inexorably, not stopping until he's in as far as he can go. Eames shudders, every nerve and synapse and atom flaring to life as he gasps, feeling Arthur rearrange his body until it makes room for him, until it feels like Eames was built just for this.

Arthur leans in closer still, until they're pressed chest to chest. The movement makes him shift where he's buried inside Eames, and his stomach rubs against Eames' cock. "Are you with me?" Arthur asks, breath ghosting across Eames' lips.

_Almost,_ Eames thinks.

Arthur moves, and it's just like their kiss. Rough and biting and bruising and _fuck,_ so fucking good. It's familiar and comforting, all of it. The burn of Arthur moving inside him, the bruises scattered across his body, left by Arthur's mouth, Arthur's hands.

Arthur releases his iron grip around Eames' wrist and traces patterns on Eames' skin, helping Eames relearn the ridges and valleys of his own body. Awareness snaps into place like a wire, and Eames is suddenly, painfully aware of himself, his body, his mind. He's painfully hard, so close to coming, and Arthur _isn't touching him._

Eames licks dry lips, tries to force enough air into his lungs to speak. "Arthur." It comes out as a gasp, more air than sound, but Arthur hears it, his hips jerk once, making Eames' eyes roll back in his head, before he can bring himself back under control. He wraps a hand around Eames' cock, gripping it just right. It only takes two pulls, then Eames is coming, shattering, muscles locking tight.

Arthur fucks Eames through it, presses his words into Eames' skin, then comes with a single, drawn-out roar. He collapses onto Eames' chest, weight familiar and comforting, and Eames raises a hand and rests it against the back of Arthur's neck.

Arthur shivers and kisses Eames' throat. "Welcome home," he says again.

Eames smiles and pulls Arthur up into a languid kiss. They pull away, and he smiles. "It's good to be home."


End file.
